Page 50 of Crowned In Venom

50

VARKOS

T he weight of her in my arms feels wrong. Too light. Too cold.

I press my forehead against hers, my breath ragged, uneven.

"Anya."

No response.

Her body is slack, her skin ashen, streaked with the remnants of her own blood. The stone altar beneath her is still slick with it, dark rivulets painting unholy patterns along the grooves of the ritual carvings.

She should be screaming. She should be glaring at me, snapping some defiant remark, fighting.

But she is still.

I can’t breathe.

"No, no, no—please, my love—come back to me."

I clutch her closer, rocking slightly, pressing frantic kisses to her temple, her hair, her forehead—anywhere, everywhere.

"You did it, Anya. You did it. Just open your eyes. Open them, damn you!"

A soft sound—a breath. A whimper.

But she doesn’t wake.

Her head lolls against my shoulder, limp.

A sharp ache lances through my chest.

I don’t care about the blood soaking my hands, my robes, my skin. I don’t care about the magic still crackling in the air. I don’t care about anything but her.

I almost lost her.

The thought slams into me like a blade.

I pull her even closer, gripping the back of her neck, pressing her against me as if I can anchor her to this world through sheer force of will.

"She’s still alive."

The Ghost’s voice cuts through the haze of desperation and grief.

I lift my head slowly.

"Then why won’t she wake up?"

The Ghost sighs, adjusting his gloves. "The ritual took a toll. She will need time to recover."

"How long?"

A pause.

Too long.

He doesn’t answer, and something in me snaps.

"How long?" I snarl, my voice low and dangerous.

"Days. Maybe weeks."

Unacceptable.

I grind my teeth, my grip on Anya tightening.

"She doesn’t have weeks."

"Neither do we," the Ghost murmurs, voice clipped. "We need to leave. Now."

He glances around, sharp eyes scanning the blood-stained stone and the flickering sigils on the walls.

"The ritual’s energy was too strong. If the Matriarch felt it, she will come."

The Matriarch.

My blood turns to ice.

"Then let her," I growl, my voice pure, seething hatred.

"She’ll regret ever touching her."

The Ghost clicks his tongue. "A touching sentiment. But one that will get you both killed."

I don’t move.

I can’t.

I can still feel Anya’s shallow breathing against my chest.

"If you don’t move, she dies anyway."

The words are calm. Cold.

And they cut deeper than any blade.

I clench my jaw. My muscles tremble from exertion, from exhaustion, from grief and rage and fear.

But I force my legs to move.

I lift Anya fully into my arms, cradling her against me.

Her head falls against my shoulder.

Her breath tickles my throat—so faint.

"Fine," I rasp.

The Ghost nods.

"Follow me."

We move through the ruined temple, the ritual chamber fading into the darkness behind us.

The air is thick, charged.

I don’t look back.

I only look at her.

At Anya.

At the woman who gave everything for me.

I will not lose her.

Not to death.

And not to the Matriarch.

Not ever.

I will destroy anyone who tries to take her from me.

Even if it means burning the world to ash.